


All Revelations Come To Us in Recovery

by starclipped



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Stucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are stages of recovery. Three steps is all it takes. (It's harder than it sounds.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. stage 1: overcoming problems

**Author's Note:**

> "If love's elastic, then were we born to test its reach?  
> Is it buried treasure or just a single puzzle piece?  
> It's poison ivy, beneath our brave and trusting feet  
> All revelations come to us in recovery"

 

He’s not supposed to be here. He knows that. Knows it as well as he knows he shouldn’t have pulled his target from the water.

 _You’re my mission_.

He’s failed.

++

There’s a museum with a section dedicated to his target. The Soldier knows this because banners and billboards advertise a very _expansive, informative, and fun_ _learning experience_. It’s not hard to get in when he’s wearing civilian clothing and other than his left arm, he’s hiding no weapons.

It’s very intricate, the exhibit. He sees framed photos in glass cases or pictures dissolving into one another on large screens. Blocks of text describe events of Captain America’s life, moments from a time past that are still being talked about today. Several murals are painted on the walls, detailed and colored and very life-like. There’s one depicting a group of heroic looking men, with the Captain in the middle and a familiar face by his side. He doesn’t look too long, lets his eyes fall away to stare at the line of mannequins instead, noting that all are clothed except for the one in the middle.

Silent video reels loop and a voiceover guides visitors forward, explaining the story of Steve Rogers and how he grew up sickly and small and desperate to join the army; how, under Project Rebirth, he became the world’s first and only super soldier.

The Soldier thinks that’s not entirely true.

He doesn’t pay attention to the tourists, keeps his head down and his eyes up, scanning everything from underneath the bill of his hat. Sounds of children laughing and proclaiming they want to be just like _Captain America_ filters through his ears without any real meaning, not until he hears, vaguely, the name _Bucky Barnes._

It’s in his head, too, spoken by a different voice.

 _Bucky?_ Disbelief.

 _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._ A stated fact he should know, but doesn’t.

And then, even deeper, faded like a distant memory – a scream echoing through the whistling wind.

He ignores it and walks on, moves towards where the words “ _The only Howling Commando to give his life in the service of his country_ ,” are coming from, and waits for a small group to dissipate before stepping closer.

The face on the mural is the face on the screen and it’s familiar because he’s seen it before, in puddles and windshields and in the window of his cryo-chamber. In mirrors, he sees these features, more weathered and blank, but still the same.

The face of Bucky Barnes is his own.

++

He sees it, can’t believe. His lips part and chills run down his spine. There’s a camera flash somewhere behind him, reflecting off the face – _his face_ – on that display, but he doesn’t even blink, doesn’t look away.

He had a life.

His mouth closes when he realizes it. This is truth. This is what HYDRA stole from him time and time again.

His jaw clenches and the wonder, the _shock_ in his eyes disappears, replaced with the second puzzle piece slotting into place as he breathes out the heavy breath he’d been holding. The Soldier is this man, this _James Buchanan Barnes_ , and he knows the Captain – the man on the bridge, Steve Rogers.

_You’re my friend._

He’s failed that, too.

 

++

He’s not supposed to be here.

Standing outside his target’s apartment is a bad idea, but he’s… lost. The Soldier is not the Soldier now, and he’s not Bucky Barnes either, but he wants – wants so badly, knows he shouldn’t – to be _someone_ , to be a person instead of the weapon he was, instead of the stray animal he is.

And with the way Steve Rogers spoke to him so desperately, dropping his shield and giving up his life for nothing but _sentiment_ , it’s logical to think he might be the one to help. Those words ( _I’m with you till the end of the line)_ stirred something inside him; chipped away at his frozen heart to burrow and create warmth, forcing him to feel the weight of something he can’t remember but _knows_ he could never forget.

He’s not supposed to be here, but he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

The apartment is dark and empty. The Soldier doesn’t leave. He looks around, quick and quiet even in his heavy boots. His sharp eyes pick up on the blood-stained wooden floor, the bullet holes in the wall, because he knows exactly where to look. Everything else is new.

The bookcase is full, but only the top shelf is dust free. The corner table is stacked with well-worn files, edges curled and smudged with something that could be charcoal. There are no souvenirs or personal photos, only those of nature or the skyline framed behind glass on the wall. He spots a record player and a lone spiral notebook on the end table next to a large chair, a stubby pencil and crumbly eraser resting atop the black cover.

He uses his pinky finger to brush the utensils away before sliding it under the hard flap and lifting, observing the doodles that suddenly appear. The first page is filled with drooping flowers, fallen petals, and dried up leaves. There’s a tree that’s alone and off to the side, and it’s small, with lines harsh enough to crinkle the paper. The next page shows a variety of things; a monkey wearing shackles and a parody of the Captain America uniform, pursed lips that are shaded to look the way lipstick would in a black and white photo, gentle eyes that suspiciously resemble his own.

And the farther he goes, the more he sees of himself, of Bucky Barnes. There’s a cleft chin, a crooked smile, curved hands holding a shot glass. One full page is used to display a neck and bare chest, two rectangular plates dangling from a chain.

He’s so enthralled by it, with his forehead creased and his jaw slack, he doesn’t even notice someone approaching until the lock turns and light from the hallway illuminates the open doorway. It startles him and he spins around to see the Captain frozen with one foot in front of the other, elbows bent at his sides and hands balled into fists.

The Soldier had come here for help – from Steve Rogers, specifically – but now he can’t make himself stay for it. One look at even just the silhouette of the man that made him deviate from the mission, that made him _feel,_ the man that made him _want_ something for the first time he could remember, and he finds himself running for the window he came in through.

He swears he can hear the panicked shout of _“Bucky!_ ” following behind him.

The Soldier ignores it.

++

He crosses off squares in a pocket calendar like he’s counting down for something and just doesn’t know it yet.

++

Ten days pass and he starts acquiring things he needs before he needs them. One hundred days pass and he leaves America to head for Europe. One hundred and twenty-two days pass and he finds himself in Russia. It’s on day one hundred and twenty-four that he has to move on because the language makes him think of death and pain and _cold, cold, cold_.

At around one hundred and fifty days, the Soldier finds the Captain and the man with the wings. They’re looking for him, he knows they are, but he doesn’t flee, chooses to stay hidden and follow at a safe distance instead. They don’t pick up his trail, are too busy raiding HYDRA bases like they think the Soldier will be there. It’s not unfounded, but it’s wrong. He won’t go back to them. Not ever.

It’s on day one hundred and sixty-seven that he finds more than just a knife and a pistol and picks up their slack.

It’s on day one hundred and seventy-nine that he passes them, killing agents and trashing equipment before the Captain and his friend can catch up. Vengeance is sought and taken. And then he starts leaving a trail, guiding them to where he’s going next, blowing up buildings when they fall off track. There’s nothing inconspicuous about it anymore. He’s being stupid and reckless and he can’t bring himself to care, but he never stops and he never lets their paths cross completely.

++

Steve Rogers is smart. The Soldier had known this, but not to the full extent. They’ve been playing their cat-and-mouse game long enough for the Captain to guess the Soldier’s next move, long enough for Rogers to realize there are certain places in each town that the Soldier likes to visit at specific hours of the night. Derelict Laundromats, out of the way diners that have already closed for the night, motels that don’t get enough customers to have more than a couple of security cameras. No crowds, no chain businesses. No problems.

So when he sneaks in through the back of a small restaurant, he’s surprised to find the Captain seated at a booth with his arms spread wide over the plastic looking cushions and his shield placed in the very center of the table.

He licks his lips and stares with unblinking, tired eyes. The Captain’s face is shadowed under the blinds, forehead and nose and jaw lit golden by the streetlight and washed green from the neon sign shining through the slats. It’s stuffy inside and the place still smells like grease, and he wonders how long Rogers has been sitting there, how much time has ticked by on that clock above the counter, if minutes have turned into hours while he waited.

The Soldier speaks first, voice low and hoarse, surprising them both. “Where’s your partner?”

Rogers is clear when he answers, “About ten miles from here.”

The Soldier’s fingers twitch. The man could be lying – terribly, he might add – or he’s just reluctant to give specifics. Either way, there’s a new lack of trust ( _where was that on the helicarrier_? he thinks) that proves Rogers to be even smarter than previously anticipated.

“Why’d you follow me?”

“I didn’t,” the Captain tells him, tone confident. “I was here first.”

The Soldier goes to shake his head, but aborts the movement. “Well, I sure as hell didn’t follow _you_.”

It’s an involuntary reply, partially a lie. He’s been following the Captain for weeks now, but not to this place. It feels like another game, one he doesn’t want to play anymore, not now that they aren’t on his terms. He’s had enough of things not being on his terms.

The Captain sighs and starts to stand. The Soldier draws his weapon, lightning quick.

“Bucky –”

That voice. That name.

“Don’t,” he grits out, metal hand unwavering even as his right arm begins to shake.

The Captain raises his palms in surrender. Somehow, the sight makes the Soldier angrier. He cocks the gun.

“Bucky,” Rogers warns – or maybe pleads, he can’t tell – and it’s the exact thing the Soldier told him _not_ to say. “Bucky, come on.”

The tone isn’t particularly calming, but it makes him pause anyway, makes him think about those words with a twisted expression and a mind that can’t settle on one thing.

“You know me.”

Maybe, he thinks. The museum says so, the Captain says so. Part of his screwed up brain says so, too.

“You went to my apartment,” Rogers continues, hands still up and legs inching forward obviously. He’s brave and careful. The Soldier swallows.  “You’ve been stringing us around for two months.”

 _So,_ he should say. _I didn’t want you to find me_. But it’s a lie because he’s been crossing out days on his calendar nearly this whole time, counting down to something, and _this_ is it.

He didn’t want to find the Captain; he wanted the Captain to find _him_.

He exhales deeply at that realization, lowers the gun and flips the safety back on swiftly.

“Are you gonna stop running?” Rogers is leaning forward as he speaks, brows raised, honest eyes never leaving the Soldier’s. “If you don’t, I don’t, and I could do this forever, Buck.”

And the Soldier _knows_ that’s true, knows in his bones even when his brain can’t recall it. So what else is there to do?

Having Steve Rogers pat him down, gentle and easy, searching for weapons, must be what surrendering feels like. Hearing a choked off whisper of, _“Thank you_ ,” to someone (maybe him or maybe God, his thoughts supply randomly) must feel like relief – for one or both of them, he can’t be sure.

++

He crosses off anther square and circles the day’s date before shoving the little booklet into the bottom of his duffel bag.

++

He’s not supposed to be here, but… he is. Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson brought him here, to that same apartment. He’s heard their side of several phone calls to people named Natasha and Stark (and _that_ name is familiar and so is the dread surrounding it).

And then he sits on the couch because they tell him to and eats the sandwich they hand him and thinks about their words as they speak quietly around the corner.

“What’re you gonna do?” Sam Wilson questions, curious and concerned.

The Captain sighs. “Rest up for a few days, see how he acts. Maybe take him to Stark or…” The pause is long and tense. “I don’t know, Sam. I just wanna help him.”

“I know.” The voice is soft, trying to be reassuring. “I’ll stop by in a couple days, alright? Get you some things. If you need me before then, just gimme a call.”

He moves his gaze from the blank wall to the door as it opens and then closes behind Sam Wilson. Rogers doesn’t come out right away, he notes as he listens to the rustling and banging coming from the kitchen. When he does reappear, 7 minutes, later, it’s with a bowl of soup and a glass of water.

He stares.

“What?” Rogers asks, looking down at the food he’s placed on the low table. “Just give it a try. You need to eat, Buck.”

He can feel himself scowling but reaches for the spoon anyway, careful not to slosh the liquid as he tilts it towards his mouth.

“Hey, wait –” the Captain’s hand stretches out towards the Soldier’s wrist, but there's no touch. “It’s hot.”

The Soldier doesn’t heed the warning. The liquid burns his tongue. The pain, at least, is familiar.

Rogers gives him new clothes to wear after he takes a shower and then makes the Soldier use his room because there’s only one bed in the apartment. It’s pointless; he ends up sleeping near the closet doors instead.

When exhaustion takes him under at 3 in the morning, he has the same dream he’s had every night for the past week. It’s blurry. The man in front of him is blond and small, but not weak. He thinks they might hug each other, but he can never remember when he wakes up. All he knows is that it feels like a memory – or dozens that look just the same – and something about it makes his heart clench.

He’s hesitant to leave the room when he wakes up 4 hours later, but does so after a 20 minute wait, only to find Rogers asleep in the big chair with a computer on his lap. The assumption is that he’s been there all night but has probably gotten less sleep than even the Soldier.

Rogers jolts awake after a moment of being watched. The laptop nearly crashes to the floor, but his reflexes are excellent and he manages to catch it in a gentle grip. The Soldier watches stock-still from beside the bookcase, unsure of what he should be doing. He hasn’t been given any orders and he’s already failed the mission by saving his target instead of killing him. He needs an objective.

“You hungry?” Rogers asks, voice still filled with sleep. The pang in his stomach tells him he is, but the Soldier says nothing.

From his spot some feet away, he watches Rogers stand and stretch and disappear into the kitchen. He follows and keeps himself beside the small table, right behind a wooden chair. Rogers rummages through the cabinet like he knows what’s there but has to go through the motions anyway.

“Do you wanna go out and get something?” His words are slow and his tone suggests he’s asking against his better judgment. The Soldier doesn’t know what to say.

They head out carefully, wearing caps and jackets that are nearly identical, just different colors. They hop onto a motorcycle and he holds the seat beneath him even though his first instinct is to grab at the man in front.

His eyes scan whatever they can land on as they cruise through the streets slowly, passing people and places and cars. They end up stopping at a street vendor and the Soldier knows the reasons; no people, no threats. So he moves when Rogers does, not too close but never straying too far, and observes.

They eat on a bus-stop bench in silence. He wipes his greasy fingers on the baggy pants he’s wearing and tries to predict what’s to come. Part of him believes that Captain America will turn him in to whatever’s left of SHIELD, though he knows that’s not much now that all the Project Insight plans and everything else before it have been exposed. But then part of him believes that this is Steve Rogers he’s sitting next to right now, the guy who’d come looking for him without the uniform, the idiot who dropped his shield and cut down the Soldier’s defenses with nothing but words that should be meaningless.

There are questions running through his head and he should wait to ask them, but he can’t.

“Why’d you look for me?” His voice doesn’t crack but it sounds like it should.

The wrapper in Steve’s lap crinkles in the 3 second span of silence. “Why’d you look for _me?_ ”

“I knew you.” It’s not what he means to say. He backtracks, swallows uneasily. “I… need help.”

And he does. What use is the Asset now that his masters have gone under? He needs guidance of a different kind, though. Now that’s he’s got a taste of being human, he wants more, he just doesn’t know how to get it – how to _be_ anything but what he is.

Rogers shifts, twisting to look at his face. The Soldier turns to oblige him, although he can’t quite meet those piercing eyes.

“I wanna help. Whatever I can do, I will.”

“Because I saved you?”

Oh, he doesn’t mean to sound so vulnerable, be he can’t take it back, and maybe he doesn’t want to because the way Rogers is looking at him (he’d call it heartbroken, if he knew what that was) speaks volumes beyond what he can comprehend emotionally.

“No, Bucky.” The voice wavers between syllables of what’s supposedly his name. “Because you’re my friend.”

“I can’t remember.”

Maybe there are tears in his eyes and maybe there are tears in the Soldier’s, too, but neither of them speaks of it. Wouldn’t do any good to point out that they’re both hurting – in different ways and for different reasons, but pained so terribly all the same.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to.

“It’s okay,” Rogers tells him, gentle and honest and _raw_ , and that’s what makes the Soldier believe him.

_It’s okay._

++

Sam Wilson returns like he said he would, only this time bags are hanging off his arms and being pressed against his chest, threatening to spill to the floor until Rogers eases them into his own grasp. They’re quiet as they speak, but he can still hear their conversation.

It’s mundane at first, the “ _hey_ ’s” and “ _how are you_ ’s” sounding warm but still awkward, like the two of them are past that but resort to such pleasantries when they’re trying to put off discussing something else.

There’s a stretch of silence that’s so absolute, the Soldier almost kicks the table over just to hear _something_.

“I found this website,” Rogers says after a beat. “It talked about recovering from trauma. Do you think I should show him?”

“I’m not too sure he’d understand it right now.”

“He’s not stupid, Sam. He understands.” The Soldier notes that Rogers sounds defensive, as if he himself has been insulted. “He _wants_ help.”

“Hey, I’m not saying that, Steve. Trust me. I just think showin’ him a list might give him expectations about how to heal. It’s better if you use this stuff as your guideline, that’s all.”

They talk for a while longer, setting up times to check in and deciding to give someone called Natasha the number to Steve’s burner phone so that he can personally request she not rush away from whatever she’s doing just to make sure things are okay. He insists that they are.

Rogers waits for his friend to leave before taking a seat next to the Soldier on the couch, body coiled tight and hands clasped over his mouth to hide the fact that he’s biting the nail on his thumb. The Soldier watches him unabashedly.

“What do you remember?”

He blinks, looks down at his hands; one flesh and bone, the other metal. Strands of hair cascade around his face, curling against his jaw. His lips part in thought. There are fragments of things orbiting around a black center, things that might’ve surfaced before being erased once again, but not completely. He sees them in broken segments; a train, an outstretched hand, the horror-stricken face of Steve Rogers. A lot of snow. White patches are covered in red and there’s a person – people and tools and everything’s blurry, and there’s a man with an ominous grin that he swears he’s seen before by the fear that rushes through him.

“I know you, but I don’t remember knowing you,” he tries to explain, exhaling in frustration. “I see your face this one time, right before I fall, and I don’t remember that either but I _see_ it.” He looks to Rogers for answers, but nothing comes, so he licks his lips, leans his elbows on his knees and rubs at his forehead. 

“You don’t remember anything else?” Rogers asks. When the Soldier shakes his head, a sigh can be heard, followed by a rush of, “That’s okay, Bucky. You’re here and that’s all that matters.”

++

 _What do you wanna do?_ Rogers had asked him that morning. Evidently, his blank stare spoke volumes about where he was at because Rogers took to consulting the computer once again for whatever information he was looking for, leaving the Soldier to sit and stare at the wall until permission was given to watch the television he doesn’t really care about. Each channel makes him squint a little more, confuses and irritates him until he slams his fist down on the remote, smashing it to pieces. He fears, for one split second, that Rogers will be mad at him, that he’ll be punished for his carelessness. But there is no anger.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rogers is quick to tell him. The Soldier would think he’s being pitied if it weren’t for the admission that follows. “I’ve, uh – I’ve broken my fair share of things, after they found me. It’s…” The Soldier can tell Rogers finds speaking of his personal struggles to be difficult, so he listens intently and tries to understand how it might help in this situation. “It’s anger, right? And confusion? It’ll get better. We just have to be patient and work hard.” He scratches at his head and huffs through his nose; the Soldier catalogues each movement and action. “That’s what a SHIELD therapist told me. But so did Sam and I trust him.”

“I trust _you_ ,” he forces himself to say. The look Rogers gives him, all hope-filled eyes and gentle quirked lips, is worth far more than any discomfort or vulnerability he might feel in these moments.

“I’ll do my best.”

They try a week and a half of monotonous activities. The Soldier eats, sleeps, and cleans up every day until it starts to feel routine. He watches cartoons or food shows on TV during the day and listens to the soft music Rogers plays at night when they’re both supposed to be sleeping. He observes the other washing dishes or dumping the trash, listens to the brief phone conversations with an absent sort of curiosity because he knows he’s always being talked about but never really cares.

He thinks his nightmares should be getting better now that he’s in a safer environment, but they only end up getting worse. They’re vivid in the moment, keeping him awake until he feels right about facing Rogers again, and by that time he can’t remember anything but the hollow feeling the images had left him with. And he knows he can go whenever he wants, knows he can slip out the front door to take a walk or to just _leave_ and not come back. He knows he should, he just can’t bring himself to do it.

When Sam Wilson returns, one large bag in hand this time, the look he gets from the Soldier could kill. He’s annoyed and distrustful, has already had a bad start to the day, with a nightmare and a glass of orange juice breaking in his hand, making a sticky mess of the couch. There is no anger or consequences for his actions and part of him wishes there was.

Sam Wilson is very perceptible and very friendly towards Rogers and it makes the Soldier feel sick with how much he doesn’t like it.

“Got the clothes you wanted,” Wilson states as he drops the bag near the kitchen. He doesn’t disappear, stays in sight so Rogers can meet him. “You better hope you’re good at guessin’ sizes ‘cause I ain’t takin’ these back.”

“Thanks,” Rogers says quietly as he bends down to pick up the bag. And then he turns, calling out, “Hey, Buck. Can you try this stuff on before we eat?”

It’s a very basic, very small wardrobe, but he’s pleased with it nonetheless. Most of the T-shirts are dark, in blues and grays, some black and even a few white. The length of the sleeves varies, as do the necklines, and they’re all a little loose around the middle but tight around the shoulders and chest. The pants fit well enough, though he needs the belt that’s been provided. He’s quick to change back into the borrowed clothing from Rogers, folding all the new items up and carrying them out in his arms.

Wilson’s still there, is seated in the corner chair with a plate of food, watching the TV and very pointedly ignoring everything else. Rogers is on the couch with two plates set atop the table in front of him. The phone in his hand gets abandoned when he spots the Soldier so he can stand and guide him to place the items carefully on the floor.

The Soldier eats his food mechanically, not bothering to taste or even completely identify what goes into his mouth. He’s the first one finished and it’s only then that Rogers starts to speak.

“We’ve got some people we can trust. They can help get you situated.”

He can recognize the good intention, but a niggle in the back of his mind puts him on alert, demands he think about what might really happen, that Steve Rogers might be trying to force him into someone else’s hands.

 _I don’t know them_ , he’s desperate to say, but his tongue won’t form the words.

Admittedly, he doesn’t know Steve Rogers either, but he _does_. Or he did, at least, and that’s enough for him. How can it not be when this man was ready to die because they had been friends at one time, long ago? Loyalty is something he knows of, in an abstract sort of way, but this is something entirely different. Rogers and his devotion to Bucky Barnes is enough to short out his mind, especially when he thinks about how they’re both here because of it. But loyalties change all the time, he’s proof of that, and it’s hard for him to understand just how far this will go.

The Soldier tries to quell the anxiousness growing inside his chest as he gives a curt nod, more understanding than accepting. He doesn’t want some stranger’s help, doesn’t need it. What he _needs_ is –

A wave of pitch black blankets those thoughts, forcing him into an empty headspace. He doesn’t need or want anything.

The Soldier isn’t aware for a while and he doesn’t know how long it lasts, not even when he starts to hear the low murmur of the television again. He blinks – one, two, three – in rapid succession, notices his dry mouth when he swallows and his aching back when he shifts from a rigid position into more of a slouch.

Rogers is asleep beside him, curled up tight on the couch, taking up more space than he would be if he sat up straight. But somehow he looks small and exposed, with his neck bared and his jaw slack, lips parted and purple shadows underneath the pale skin of his eyes illuminated by the light flashing from the screen.

He’s gotten more sleep than Rogers since he’s been here and he can’t help feeling the problem lies on his shoulders. He could leave now. Creep towards the door without making a sound, shut it with a gentle click behind him and then run. He wouldn’t be caught this time – or maybe he would, if he really wants to (and he thinks he might want to). He can’t tell if he’s weak or strong, doesn’t know what he would do once he left the walls of this apartment, and it scares him.

“Bucky?” the voice is groggy and soft, questioning.

The Soldier is transported back in time for a moment, to a place and year he doesn’t know, and everything is so blurry, like it was wiped over but never fully expunged. Maybe he held on too tightly, but what good is it if he can’t understand?

“Buck?” The voice is louder this time, insistent. Worried.

He exhales and responds without a thought, still lost in the sepia tones of the untouchable world inside his head. “Yeah?”  It’s a response to the name that isn’t his – that _is._ He shakes his head and blinks, turns to stare up at the face only inches away.

“What happened?” Rogers asks, stifling a yawn. Even in this drowsy state, his eyes are alive and vigilant. “Earlier. You just sort of…”

“I don’t know. It’s happened before.”

“When?”

He can’t recall all the times and doesn’t try to. “I think I should go,” he blurts out instead.

He watches the man in front of him, notices the jaw twitching with an immediate response that gets pushed down, shifted into a different set of words.

“I know it’s your choice,” he says quietly, convincing himself that what he’s saying is true. “I _know_ that, but I can’t let you go by yourself. You asked for my help and dammit, I’m not gonna fail you again.”

The Soldier’s eyes narrow and he frowns. “What am I to you?” he asks, though he can predict the answer.

“You’re my friend.”

He shakes his head. _No_. “Maybe _then_ , but what am I to you now?”

A burden. A charity case. A pet. Just another tool to be used in whatever agenda the Captain has.

He feels a hand clamp tight around his right shoulder, feels similar pressure on his left, just without fingers digging into skin through cloth. “You’re my friend,” Rogers repeats fiercely. “You were my whole life for the longest time, Buck. And I know you don’t remember, but if you did… you’d understand.”

Rogers swallows thickly and the Soldier watches, his head tilting to the side and his eyes dropping down to a point in the middle of that broad chest. He imagines being able to see that heart beating, wishes he could feel it for himself so that he knows for sure it didn’t stop by his hand and that all of this isn’t some cold-induced delusion.

It isn’t, though, and if he can’t feel the heartbeat of Steve Rogers, then he’ll focus on his own, especially when there’s a thumb pressed against the pulse in his neck, grounding him in reality.

++

He starts crossing off days in his pocket calendar again, scribbling in the boxes each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Those are the days that he visits a Stark Industries appointed therapist at a place they refer to as the Tower. It’s big and ugly and has a big A right in front, at the very top. Rogers doesn’t tell him what the A stands for, but the people inside welcome him as if he’s part of their group, so the Soldier doesn’t feel so out of place.

He doesn’t meet the man called Stark and he’s glad because there’s something about the name that makes him want to wring his hands.

They focus on routine, visiting a small, warm office three out of seven days a week. It’s just the Soldier and the therapist at first, which doesn’t go so well. He’s unresponsive and blanks out far more than he does in the apartment, his mind trying to force away the memories of HYDRA that the woman’s words seem to draw out. The visits don’t help and it’s obvious. He’s a little surprised when Rogers demands to sit in on a session one day, clearly unhappy with the Soldier withdrawing further into himself.

“There are stages of recovery, but things aren’t always linear,” she tries to explain. “The first stage is about overcoming the traumatic experiences and the problems they’ve caused.  The focus shouldn’t be on the memories of these traumatic events, but sometimes it’s necessary and I think that’s the case with James. We need to discuss what’s disrupting his life so he can achieve stability and safety, as well as a healthy relationship with himself.”

The Soldier watches Rogers as he puffs his cheeks out with a deep exhale and rubs his hands over his thighs. “Can we do something? He stopped talking three days ago. He just…”

The Soldier stays perfectly still and calm as he meets the worried blue eyes boring into him.

“I recommend he set a list of personal goals and helping him when he needs it or when you deem it necessary. He may seem like he’s holding up, but he’s in a very fragile state of mind.” She pauses briefly, switching the file on her lap and sliding the glasses farther up her nose, eyes sharp and observant. “We should probably talk about _your_ recovery, too, Mr. Rogers.”

“Another time,” he says quickly, a tight smile on his lips as he moves to stand swiftly.

The Soldier follows him, unspeaking as he’s led out of the room and onto the back of the bike. A beeping noise sounds from the body in front of him, muffled by jeans, and is ignored in favor of revving the engine of the bike and darting off down the empty road. His hands stay on the sides of his seat, like always.

++

“Is there anything you like to do?” Sam Wilson asks him over breakfast the next morning. He drinks coffee like Rogers, but the Soldier drinks milk and tries not to think of his handler as he does so. “You might have fun trying out some new things, y’know? Steve likes to draw. Maybe you two could start off with that.”

“We can try morning runs. I miss those,” Rogers adds, smiling softly when Wilson does. The Soldier looks down and keeps his eyes locked on the blank page in front of him.

“You’d probably do good in a library. Nice and quiet, nobody to bother you. And reading’s a good way to pass the time.”

Rogers looks as if he’s carefully trying not to add anything that might sway the Soldier’s decision. It makes him curious and frustrated, but continues to say nothing.

He listens to them bounce ideas of each other and goes about writing them on the page in sloppy, unpracticed letters. It makes the whole thing seem a little more personal.

He starts jogging with Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson before the sun rises, when the air is cool and the streets are mostly empty. Even then, they stick to more scenic routes, avoiding public places as much as possible. It’s quiet at first. The Soldier can keep up with Rogers almost completely while Wilson lags behind, unperturbed. There’s something about the man’s demeanor that sets the Soldier on edge. He’s too likable, too nice and friendly and helpful. He’s too involved with Rogers and that shouldn’t bother him, but it does, deeply. Several feelings settle within his chest, under his ribcage, hot against his heart. He can’t name any of these emotions and it makes him angry – and at least _that_ he knows.

After several laps, the Soldier hears Rogers mutter _on your left_. It makes Wilson laugh and that’s when he understands. Sam Wilson is important to Steve Rogers, a _real_ friend, without all the baggage and complications.

Wilson is to Rogers what Rogers is to the Soldier… to _Bucky_. A voice in the back of his mind tells him that this is what heartbreak is and that he’s known it before, that he’s known exactly what it feels like to be useless, just another tag along, forgettable and easily replaced.

He runs until he thinks he can escape his thoughts.

They follow him mercilessly.

++

He makes himself even more unobtrusive, tries not to move or twitch when Rogers is watching, which is hard considering he’s _always_ watching. He can’t go too fast or too slow when they go on their morning runs because either Rogers will catch up or Wilson will lag behind, both concerned and questioning in their own ways.

He starts crossing off things on the list and finds out that he likes running but hates drawing, finds that focusing on doing something he’s not good at makes him upset and aggressive. He’d broken a section of the table when his fist slammed down against it and still, nothing was done or said about it.

They go to the library now, just him and Rogers, separating once they’re off the bike and inside the vast building. He’s careful to ignore anything that’s not a stack of pages stuck between hard or soft covers. He’s even more careful to ignore anything to do with Captain America and the Howling Commandos.

But he ends up finding something that’s old and battered and it’s so easy just to transport himself inside that world, one where he can pretend he’s someone else without the ache of knowing it’s pointless. He must spend hours there, curled up in the aisle, hidden behind tall bookshelves with nothing but silence around. He can process things quickly, ends up reading a small stack of books by the time Rogers finds him even though he tries hard to slow down and appreciate the written tales held against his palms. It’s much easier to forget things like this, with no electric pain or shrouds of darkness he can’t fight off. And when he looks up to the face smiling softly down at him from above, remembering what he does isn’t so bad. He just wishes it could stay this way.

It doesn’t.

He falls asleep that night with a borrowed book in his lap, the pages flipped to a place he surpassed long ago, and wakes up screaming only a handful of hours later. The Soldier doesn’t know anything but the mantra cycling through his brain.

_I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Steve. Steve. Steve –_

He comes barreling in, slipping a little, unable to gain full control of his limbs in his half-asleep state. The Soldier stops screaming when he sees Rogers, alive and blinking rapidly, palms out and knees bent, ready to take whatever course of action that’s needed. And the Soldier starts crying, silent tears sliding down his flushed cheeks. The sniffles come and are followed by outright sobs. He tries to blink the bleariness away long enough to understand that Rogers has dropped down and is reaching, pulling the swaying body of the Soldier into his own. There’s no hesitance about it, no pause for cautious thought. He just _holds_ him, pets shakily at long, tangled hair, whispering, “ _It’s okay, Buck. It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere. It’s okay.”_

He doesn’t understand why he’s crying, but somehow he knows that the tears are for Steve – because he can’t remember him and he wants to forget and everything is so much and not enough all at the same time. He’s exhausted even though he sleeps, light-headed even when he breathes, and empty after he’s eaten because the fullness he needs isn’t from food, but from the emotions he can’t bring himself to connect with.

Not until now, at least. Because in his dream, he killed Steve Rogers. He killed him and he felt nothing, like it was just another mission and it’s not _right_. And a dream like that must slot something into place because he finds himself clutching tight to the man in front of him (for a brief moment, he thinks he might recall doing this with someone much smaller) and he speaks for the first time in nearly two and a half weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking through his tears, and he forces himself to stutter out, “S-steve,” like it’s agony and liberation to know and breathe it finally.

Steve embraces him tight enough to bruise. It’s the best feeling he’s had in ages.

 


	2. stage 2: remembrance and mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He caves then, caves for Steve. Something tells him just like always.
> 
> So he tells Steve about the dream. The way he describes it, Steve informs him it sounds more like a flashback. That makes him feel worse.

Therapy is something he’s learned to deal with and even appreciate, in his own way. It’s a slow process, makes him impatient sometimes, but every day that he leaves that tower with Steve, even if it’s not a good one, makes him feel more  _alive_.

The Soldier shaves after he showers now, waking up one day and deciding he didn’t like the feel of a beard on his jaw anymore. And he even lets Steve trim his hair, just enough so that it reaches closer to his ears instead of past his shoulders. He eats more than three times a day, makes an effort to get six hours of sleep every night, and doesn’t hesitate to leave the room when he has a nightmare. He does, however, still find it difficult to allow Steve to keep him company while he tries to stop his body from shaking.

He’s more observant on their morning runs, too, enjoying the fresh air and the sight of the sky as it lightens. Steve’s interactions with Sam Wilson remain largely ignored, or else they might sour his mood for the rest of the day.

The list stuck to the refrigerator with a star magnet gets longer even as things keep getting crossed off. He likes tennis and knitting as much as reading and running. The list of things he  _doesn’t_  like is short, but present, and he steers clear of sketching or trying to grow a plant or cooking – and really, that last one proved so disastrous that he nearly burned down the kitchen a second time,  _on purpose_. Oddly, Steve found it hilarious and that made the Soldier want to laugh right along with him.

But even though he feels more human and can accept himself as one, there isn’t much else he  _will_  accept. He won’t admit to the awful things HYDRA’s done to him and he refuses to acknowledge the fact that he can’t remember the past he shares with Steve; refuses to acknowledge that they even had a past, some days, when he gets so upset that his face turns splotchy red and he curls up into a ball because he can’t breathe. It’s only then that he wishes he still had a curtain of hair to hide behind.

He can’t accept that he’s not in full control of himself yet. It’s a problem that serves to make him even more stubborn.

Evidence of this is shown when he starts understanding that  _no_  is a word returned to his vocabulary.

++

It starts with food. It’s not that he doesn’t  _like_  soup or sandwiches or salads anymore, he’s just bored of them.

“Do you want scrambled eggs?” Steve asks after the Soldier refuses toast.

“No,” he says, casual and unbothered.

“Fried potatoes?”

“No.”

“Pancakes? Waffles? I think we have some bacon left.”

The answer is still, “No.”

He shifts on the couch so he can see Steve’s face as he sighs. He looks so tired all the time and part of the Soldier knows that it’s because of him, and he feels bad for that. So bad that he has to lock himself away for hours at a time, which only makes him  _more_ upset because he’s stolen Steve’s bedroom and isn’t even using it properly (the bed hasn’t been touched in months).

But right now the Soldier is in a certain mood, one where nothing sounds good and all he wants to say is no, just to assure himself he can, and that means he does his best to ignore Steve’s carefully veiled exasperation.

“What do you want then?”

“To pick out food with you next time,” he admits. Steve stares at him for a long moment, mood settling while he props his shoulder up against the wall.

And that’s how they find themselves in Sam Wilson’s rental car, on the way to the grocery store before they’ve even eaten breakfast.

They don’t go to a large outlet, but rather something small, like a minimart. He gets easily distracted by the counter of readily available foods that are all greasy and delicious smelling, if not a bit nauseating. He sees pizza and bright colored drinks, nachos and garlic bread and a box full of chocolate bars. He wants it all.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve reprimands, but there’s something soft in his tone, something he could call fond, which he’s been noticing a lot lately.

Sam Wilson snorts. “You sure, man? We can get you a box of donuts and call it a day…”

He’s in the car, devouring his pizza and being oddly mindful of not making a mess all over the backseat while Steve and Wilson talk openly in front of him.

“I think  _no_  is his new favorite word,” Steve says, maybe a little teasingly.

“Must take after you,” Wilson replies. The Soldier knows it’s a joke. Things like that are a little easier to identify now. “But really, that’s good.” And then Wilson is looking in the rearview mirror, trying to catch his gaze. “You say no as much as you want, buddy.”

The Soldier thinks Wilson might not be so bad. He’ll have to contemplate it some more.

++

When Steve comes back from the real grocery store later that evening, it’s with what he calls  _actual food_. There are lots of greens and reds and yellows, vegetables and meats and fruits. The Soldier just wants more nachos.

“Make some yourself,” Steve tells him, and then he pulls out a bag of chips and a jar of cheese and jar of jalapenos, and he’s smiling at the Soldier like he hopes he’s done something good.

The warm feeling in his chest returns more and more during times like these, so much so that he’s starting to crave it. He’s heard his therapist and even Wilson talk about how lucky and blessed they are that he’s not addicted to anything, but he absolutely knows they’re wrong. He’s addicted to Steve’s adorable, sun-bright, closed-lip, crooked little smile. It’s worse than any drug and he knows it. Somehow, he  _knows_.

++

_How do you feel?_

It’s a question he’s asked every time he steps foot into that small, warm office, but it always catches him off guard.

“Memories make us feel certain things,” his therapist explains. “We need to discuss what you remember so your progress can continue, but before we do that I was thinking we might try to gain a better understanding of emotions.”

The Soldier is still working on  _feelings_ ; how to identify them objectively, how to recognize them when they’re coursing through his veins and making his heart stutter. He’s got a handle on some, knows anger and confusion and understands that he feels  _guilty_  and  _powerless_  because of what HYDRA did to him.

“We feel a lot of things as humans, don’t we, James? I know it can be overwhelming, but it might help you to think of it this way. There are two basic emotions in life. Anger, confusion, guilt… all these negative reactions you’ve been having are based on fear.”

She gives him a moment to think this through, just like she usually does, and it’s especially needed this time.

_Fear_. The Soldier was taught to fear nothing but his masters. And it had been that way for as long as he could remember, up until the helicarriers, when he stared down at Steve’s battered face, knowing his hand was the cause of it, and those  _words_  echoed through his mind like a favorite forgotten record. He’d known real fear then and everything else after – the silent rage and righteous fury, the lack of clarity, the aggression and depression, the shame and helplessness… all of it was because of fear.

He breathes deeply through his nose and tries to stay calm.

“Happiness, compassion, contentment and all of those positive feelings stem from love. You’ve felt joy, haven’t you, James?”

He knows he must have, but every moment or action or sentence that brought him joy (and was, apparently, fueled by love) involves Steve. It seems wrong to tell her this, so he doesn’t.

++

The Soldier watches Steve a lot. If he can understand Steve’s feelings, maybe he can understand his own.

++

It doesn’t work that way.

He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but there are things that the Soldier can see in Steve that he can’t even find in himself.

A list starts forming in his head, composed of observations, like how Steve holds his jaw, chin jutted when he’s angry; the way he casts his eyes down and doesn’t blink when he gets lost within the expanses of his own mind; the way his breath hitches when he’s asleep and doesn’t know the Soldier’s watching, compared to the deep, even slumber he falls under when he’s certain that the Soldier’s right next to him and not leaving anytime soon.

He knows how Steve likes his coffee (black, no sugar) and that, despite his healthy tendencies, he has a real sweet tooth for apple pie – something about his mother making it for his birthday every year until she died.

“And then you tried to make it for me,” he slips on day. “It wasn’t bad, actually. You –” Steve's laugh sounds startled before it cuts off abruptly, his expression morphing into something scornful, as if he should be ashamed for wanting to reminisce.

The Soldier wants to know more. He never asks.

++

The only time the Soldier doesn’t try to analyze Steve’s behavior is when he’s speaking to Sam Wilson, in person or over the phone, in quiet and broken tones.

“Bucky makes me happy. He’s  _always_ made me happy,” he catches Steve saying one night. “And God, Sam, you don’t know how glad I am to have him back. But sometimes I just… fuck, I  _can’t –_ ”

He tries not to think about what it means or why Steve never finishes that sentence.

He thinks about it all the time anyway.

++

Monday starts off terribly.

It’s a nightmare he’s been having, the more he thinks about fear. There’s a man in a dark lab, prodding him, inflicting a searing pain that’s unlike anything he’s ever known. He’s only gotten three hours of sleep by the time Steve searches for him, ready to leave for their run.

“I don’t want to,” he forces himself to say, curling up into a ball, back pressed hard against the closet door.

“Are you okay?”

The Soldier doesn’t have to look at Steve’s face to picture the concerned expression. It’s all in the voice. He shuts his eyes tight and keeps quiet.

Steve leaves the room, but not the house, and it’s only an hour and fifteen minutes later that he reenters with a toasted bagel in hand and an order to get up soft on his tongue.

“I’m not going,” the Soldier decides out loud.

“Bucky…” Steve tries, tone ever-patient and soothing.

He knows enough to comprehend he’s being coddled. 

“No.

When Steve speaks again, he sounds a little less gentle. “Bucky, get up. Now. We’re going.”

“Fuck you. I said no.”

They’re spontaneous, awful words that are forced out from anger, bred from fear. He feels bad about saying such a thing to Steve, but he feels  _good_ , too; good because he can refuse to do things he doesn’t like, because he can voice what he wants and not be punished…

For a brief moment, he believes he’s free of consequences and the more he truly thinks about that, the more he realizes he doesn’t actually like it.

He throws a punch at Steve, not because he wants to hurt him, but because he wants to  _be_ hurt. He wants the pain. It’s familiar, it’s grounding. It’s something he can try to run from, unlike the crap going on inside his brain. He can’t see the therapist because she’ll want to know the things he doesn’t and she’ll want to know the things he does.

So he punches, metal fist jabbing into Steve’s nose. There’s blood immediately, no time to react, and he goes for it again, trying to rile up his  _friend_  just so he can feel something that he can be certain exists.

Steve tries to scramble backwards, catches another fist with one hand as he goes, using the other to try and stop the blood leaking from his face, onto his cotton shirt and hard floor.

“ _Stop_ ,” he demands, voice drowned out by the Soldier’s snarl. “Bucky, stop!”

His arm gets twisted down by Steve’s strength with only the slightest struggle. It’s another reminder of how useless and weak he is.

“Fucking hit me!”

Steve pauses for only a moment before he twists and slams the Soldier down ionto the floor that creaks below them. He struggles as Steve rolls atop him, straddling tense thighs, pinning his human arm even easier than he had the metal one. That earnest face is inches away, sad and bloody. Broken.

“I know what you’re doing,” Steve says the best he can with blood clogging his airways. “Don’t try to make me hurt you, Bucky. I won’t. You know I won’t.”

“So you’re just gonna let me keep hurting  _you_?”

Steve closes his eyes.

“Yeah.” The Soldier barks out a bitter laugh. “You think I can’t hear you talkin’ to  _Sam_?”

“You don’t get it –”

“No, I don’t!” he shouts, eyes shut tight. “I  _don’t_  and I hate it! I hate –”  _Not knowing. Not understanding. Not, not, not._

The Soldier flinches when Steve lets his face drop down to rest his forehead against the Soldier's jaw. But when Steve exhales, hot breath puffing against the Soldier’s neck, he can’t help break the weakening hold on his arms so he can wrap them around the torso hovering over his own.

“Just talk to me,” Steve whispers. “Just… talk.” He swallows and the Soldier shivers. “I miss your voice.”

“I’m not him,” he tells Steve, because it’s the truth and he deserves it. God, does he deserve it, and so much more, so much better.

“Maybe…” But then Steve shakes his head and leans back up, eyes roaming all around the Soldier’s face until they settle to stare heatedly into his. “No. You are. I know you are.”

“How?”

 “Because we’ve known each other since before we could count to twenty." Steve sounds like he's pleading. "I’m not gonna pretend that what’s happened is just people changing, but I’m also not gonna pretend that we can’t make this work. And you’re trying so hard. Don’t quit now. Please.”

He caves then, caves for Steve. Something tells him  _just like always_.

So he tells Steve about the dream. The way he describes it, Steve informs him it sounds more like a flashback. That makes him feel worse.

It's on a whim that they head to a secluded area on the motorcycle. Steve tells him to just let it all out when they stop. The Soldier doesn’t even have to work himself up to it.

“I hate you!” he shouts – to any and all who have ever wronged him. “Fuck you! I hate you! Couldn’t break me, you bastards! I’m still here!  _I’m still here…_ ”

He doesn’t know where it all comes from, but it makes him feel powerful and in control,  _finally._  He screams at the top his lungs, the sounds ripped from his throat even as he cries, only pausing to gasp for breath before he starts up again.

Steve doesn’t step forward until Bucky’s finished and crumpled on the dirt minutes later. When he does, it’s to hold him close and tight until they’re ready to go home.

++

He does nothing on Tuesday, skips therapy again on Wednesday, and Steve barely leaves his side through the restless hours. The Soldier feels like a selfish piece of shit. Or maybe that’s Bucky.

++

He doesn’t like cooking, they all know this, but Sam Wilson insists that baking is different.

“Steve likes to cook ‘cause it’s an  _art,_ ” Wilson says, emphasizing the last word like he’s been told this before and must dutifully repeat it. “Baking’s more of a science. Guy like you might appreciate it, from what I’ve heard.”

He doesn’t get what that means and he doesn’t ask. But he learns that baking requires things to be exact, precise, and the Solider knows he can be both, so he bakes.

He starts with cookies on Thursday, sugar and chocolate chip. Steve and Sam eat nearly all of them and don’t skimp on the praise. There a few left the next morning, sealed up in a plastic bag, and it puts him in a good enough mood that he decides to let Steve take him back to Stark’s tower to see his therapist.

She’s not angry or disappointed in him, but she wants to know what happened.

It’s Steve who tells her; Steve who’s always saving him, especially from himself. Steve, Steve, Steve.

(He wishes he could remember. He wishes he didn’t have to.)

++

He wakes up close to noon on Saturday, alone in the apartment for what feels like the first time in a while. There’s a note on the fridge, pinned up next to the list full of lines and scratchy words.

_Went to the store with Sam and Nat. Call if you need anything._

A heavy ink dot lingers in the empty space on the small page, a thoughtful word left unmarked and unsaid. He wonders what it would’ve been, if it could’ve made him smile. Steve’s good at that these days. Probably always has been.

He bakes over a dozen cinnamon rolls while he’s alone. They’re good and the whole thing is calming, but he’s already thinking about the next dessert he wants to attempt making.

When Steve returns, it’s with a bag of apples, like he just instinctively knows what Bucky wants to do. Sam Wilson follows, carrying totes of food and toiletries, and behind him is a petite, red-headed woman that can only be Natasha.

They tried to kill each other, but it doesn’t make things awkward. In fact, she acts as if the whole thing never happened, simply choosing to observe him with an intense and slightly distrustful gaze instead of hopping onto his shoulders in another effort to choke him or cut his throat open.

“Should I call you Bucky?” is the first thing she asks.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t had a choice up until now. Steve had taken to calling him Bucky because that’s who he was, that’s who he knew him as, and Sam usually tries to avoid calling him anything altogether. He’s James to his therapist, which isn’t so bad, but it doesn’t fit right.

Bucky. Is that what he wants to be called?

“Yeah,” he decides, easy though it’s not. She offers him her hand and he shakes it.

++

The easiest way to get Steve to talk about the past is to feed him apple pie. It reminds the Soldier of people losing their inhibitions when drunk on alcohol, only Steve is intoxicated by golden crust and sweet apples and can’t seem to remember that he’s tried so hard to be careful up until now.

“You remember the first time you had my mom’s pie? You swore you’d never had anything like it in your whole life. You were  _8 years old, Bucky._ ” He laughs. The Soldier listens. “You did my homework for a whole week one time ‘cause I was too sick to even see straight. Oh, and when you took me to Coney Island – I threw up, remember? But when we went I asked why you weren’t takin' the girl you’d been seeing… can’t think of her name. You know what you told me?” Steve doesn’t give him any time to respond, not that he could anyway. He has no clue what’s being talked about. “You said you knew I’d be the better date.” He laughs again, but it sounds bitter this time. “You were being nice and trying to make up for the Cyclone. You didn’t mean it.”

“Then why'd I say it?”

He thinks it’s a simple enough question. Steve’s expression tells him he’s wrong.

Steve shrugs, keeps his eyes on the fork lying in the crumbs on the otherwise empty plate. “I dunno, Buck. People say a lot of things they don’t mean.”

“Even you?”

The Soldier watches Steve rub his knuckles roughly over his mouth. “I try not to,” he says quietly. “But sometimes the things you don’t say are worse than the things you don’t mean.”

++

He thinks about those words for three days before he realizes that maybe Steve wishes he could tell him something he should probably already know.

++

He doesn’t want to talk about HYDRA or Steve or how he feels about not remembering his life before The Winter Soldier. His therapist understands.

“I think we should try EMDR, which stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. In eight phases, EMDR can help alleviate the anxiety caused by past, present, and future aspects of traumatic memories. It’s also proven to help with PTSD, which you could really benefit from, James. Now… it is a controversial method, but the option is there for your choosing. I’d like you took think it over. Discuss it with Steve, if you’d like.”

_History and Treatment Planning; Assessment; Desensitization; Installation; Body Scan; Closure; Reevaluation._

It all sounds so technical, mechanical, like things you would do to a machine instead of a human.

Steve doesn’t ask about the pages of information he’s holding when they exit the building together and he simply watches when the Soldier marches over to the trashcan to drop them in.

He finds them on the table in the morning, spread out and unrumpled, a silent  _just think it through_ present in the air.

++

His therapist allots him three extra hours every day that he visits her so that he doesn’t feel rushed. In return, he’s asked to keep a journal. He writes about more than just what he experiences during his sessions, about more than memories and thoughts and feelings and processes. The Soldier writes about Steve.

++

When he walks out of his last EMDR session weeks later, it isn’t Steve waiting in the lobby, it’s Natasha. She gives him a tiny little smirk that he’s come to associate as both genuine and guarded. It’s nice enough for him to return.

“Steve’s in a meeting with Stark. He wanted me to take you home so you wouldn’t go gray waiting for him.”

He clutches his journal close to his chest as he slips into the passenger seat, not fully convinced that she can’t see the private words hidden inside. But she doesn’t pay attention to that and when she looks at him it’s only to make eye contact while she speaks.

She asks him if he wants to listen to music and when he says yes, she wants to know what kind. He turns the dial until the station that plays songs from the 1950’s surfaces because that’s what Steve’s been listening to the past few days and the Soldier really likes it.

“You would’ve been in your 30’s when this came out, right?” Natasha asks. She sounds casual enough, but there’s something hesitant in her tone, like she’s not quite sure what she should and shouldn’t say, where the boundaries are.

It’s an interesting question. He thinks back to the museum and the display that said he was born in 1917 and died in 1945 at 28 years old. If he’d made it just 5 more years, he would’ve been 33 in the year 1950.

It’s nearly 2015 and he doesn’t even know what age his is now. Almost 98, technically, but physically he’s probably in his early thirties, his body and everything inside having been preserved by ice for more time than not.

He’s too preoccupied with his thoughts to realize that Natasha must’ve told him they’d be stopping at a fast food joint to pick up a late lunch. They don’t get out of the car to order, just drive past a couple windows and then park in the lot to eat in peace. She hands over a dozen tacos and an overly large drink without comment, already knowing how much he and Steve can truly eat.

And they sit there in silence for a while, listening to the birds chirp and the idle chatter of those passing by. She pokes at her half-eaten bowl of food and licks her lips before catching his gaze, her head tilted and her eyes staring up through her lashes. He recognizes that she’s trying to tone down her authority, appearing more submissive so as to make him feel at ease. It has the opposite affect because he knows she’s faking.

The fact that he narrows his eyes is enough to clue her in and she changes her position before speaking her thoughts.

“You’re not the only one who’s been unmade.”

Her story is told in vague tidbits. The Soldier isn’t sure if she does it on purpose or if it’s because she can’t remember either. Whatever the reason, he appreciates being spoken to so candidly, appreciates being trusted with such personal information.

“They did things to us that we never should’ve bounced back from,” she tells him softly, food abandoned for the time being, neither caring if it gets cold and unappetizing. “But sometimes they find people that are too strong and too stubborn to lose themselves forever. That’s why we’re here, so we can start all over. But you have to know that everything that’s happened to you is  _not_  your fault. When you’re in control, think of what you choose to do.  _That’s_  who you are, Bucky. And if you forget everything else, remember that.” Her lips twitch then. “And Steve. Remember him, too.”

Like he could ever forget again.

++

He’s sitting on the couch with wet hair, watching some show about decorating when Steve walks through the door, a small plastic bag dangling from his fingers. The Soldier flicks his eyes up from the screen to look at Steve instead, watching the way he throws his keys onto the kitchen table as he makes his way to the couch with a small, almost private smile.

“How’d it go?” Steve asks as he plops down beside him, dropping the bag into the Soldier’s lap. He perks up a little, curious to see what’s inside.

“It was good,” he replies right before he starts to smile.

There’s a bunch of candy in front of him, all different kinds – chocolate bars and lollipops and little fruit flavored squares.  There’s taffy and licorice and chocolate covered pretzels, too. He sticks his hand inside and pulls out a red toothbrush. His head gets thrown back when genuine laughter rumbles through his chest and gets forced out through his throat.

“What’s this for?” he manages between laughs.

“So you don’t rot your teeth.”

The Soldier rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t fade. “No, I mean –” And he gestures towards the junk food in his lap.

Steve scratches at his head. The Soldier swears his cheeks and ears are pinker than usual. “I’m just proud of you, Buck.”

Those words shouldn’t hit him like they do and neither should Steve’s expression, but he feels warm and relaxed and  _happy._  The realization nudges another puzzle piece into place.

He  _is_  Bucky, just like Natasha said, just like Steve has been saying. He’s Bucky and it doesn’t matter if he can’t remember the past because for the first time, the future’s starting to look a little brighter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shorter than I wanted it to be, but words wouldn't cooperate. It feels more like a summary than an actual chapter. And I know this feels choppier than the last chapter, which is probably because I tried to show that weeks are passing without dragging it on. The last chapter should feel more together, I hope.
> 
> But anyway, I'm sort of already trying to think about what to write after I finish the last chapter. I have a couple of ideas but I feel like that's all they are, just ideas. We'll see.
> 
> Hope you guys still managed to enjoy this. Thanks for the support. <3


	3. stage 3: reconnecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His jaw trembles. He tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling with watery eyes, whispering, “I’ve been trying to understand how I got here, what happened… before. And at first I was thinkin’ that I chose Steve, y’know? Information says I stopped some kid from beatin’ on him, that I chose to do that all on my own, but I can tell you right now, I didn’t choose him. I didn’t choose him. He chose me. He decided that I could stick around and I’m fucking trapped with it now. I can’t remember who I am, but I’ve always known his face. Why?”

It’s complicated.

He’s human and he feels it, every day, but there’s still a piece missing. His therapist isn’t the only one telling him what his next step should be.

++

“She’s right,” Sam Wilson says over dinner. “One of the most common things I see at the VA is people struggling to reconnect.”

Bucky doesn’t talk about therapy much and not at all with anyone who isn’t Steve. He knows Steve talks about him, is there when he does it sometimes, when Steve’s telling stories (mostly from the present, rarely from the past) to Natasha or catching Sam up on what’s been going on when they leave the apartment. But Steve also talks about Bucky when he’s not around and that thought makes him want to tilt his head back with a smile and closed eyes, even as his hands threaten to shake from irrepressible nerves.

What does Steve say about him, he wonders? Does Steve recount to his friends the things that Bucky did to make him laugh that day? Does he tell them about the influx of chocolate chip cookies, spice cakes, and apple pies his kitchen has seen this past month? Does he talk about the good days with pride and skip over the bad days like they were just a misstep, when in reality the way they handle each other is becoming increasingly too private, too _intimate_ , for anyone else to know?

++

They go to parks sometimes, when they can’t think of a reason to stay in. The bike has cruised all around DC in search of places to visit. Benjamin Banneker Park has a nice view of the Potomac, only it’s not so nice for Bucky or for Steve, so they skip out before they even stop.

Steve likes the Constitution Gardens because it’s peaceful and private. But Bucky can see Steve’s eyes go distant when he stares at the lake for too long and they make it a point to go elsewhere after that.

Bucky’s favorite location, and now Steve’s by default, is Bartholdi Park. It’s across from the Botanic Garden Conservatory and is somehow even more beautiful. There’s a fountain that he could stare at all day – and he did once, just stood and watched the water spray, rise and fall like his even chest, until the lights came on, soft spherical glows against the navy sky. The beauty of the world is showcased and they can see it so easily, can go to this refugee without any purpose other than _just because_.

It’s at Bartholdi that Steve grabs his hand, a stretch of warmth on his cool skin, drawing him forward and closer, drawing him in. It’s only to lead the way and he knows it, he’s been standing, zoned out for too long, but it’s the fact that Steve’s fingers curl to slot between his – the perfect fit – that makes him think it’s always been this way.

And when Steve grabs his other hand, trying to get Bucky’s attention without words, and those warm, lively fingers find a niche between the unforgiving metal, Bucky has to wonder if he was made for this.

They hold hands more often after that.

When they’re walking through the store and Bucky’s too busy eyeing the 50 different boxes of cereal with a scrunched up face that Steve knows means they’ll be there all day, he grabs Bucky’s hand and tugs and mumbles about getting the only brand of peanut butter that Sam will accept.

When they’re in the mall and Bucky feels like he might lose himself in the crowds of people, he reaches for Steve’s hand instead of ducking into a store, reaches for that beacon instead of choosing to run.

When they’re on the couch, watching a movie that neither of them cares too much about, Steve grabs Bucky’s hand and holds it to his chest. There’s a marker involved, running lines soft and steady over his skin, just enough to tickle down between his bones. He’s enthralled by the strong _thump-thump_ of Steve’s heart and can’t be helped when he twists his arm, forcing the lines to drag farther than Steve wanted, just so he can splay his palm and fingertips wide over that spot he cares so much about.

So they hold hands sometimes. It’s no big deal.

++

When Bucky has a nightmare that wakes him up screaming, Steve barges in and throws himself onto the bed, reeling Bucky in close and tight, both of them clammy and haunted by the terrors of their minds. Steve uses his body to cover Bucky, like he’s a damn human shield, and Bucky would never let that happen if they were in combat, but here… in a bedroom, even with the door wide open, they’re locked away from the world. And if Steve wants to be Bucky’s shield, then he’ll let him. Just for now. Just –

And Steve plasters himself to Bucky like they’re one being; fingers twined, legs tangled, back-to-chest. Steve’s lips are at his temple, words hushed like he’s not supposed to hear them being breathed into his skin.

He settles down after a few minutes, but Steve doesn’t let go. It occurs to him then that Steve might need the comfort more than he does.

++

It’s Tuesday night when Sam comes over, a routine all on its own. He cooks spaghetti because he thinks Steve can’t do it right.

It’s warm despite the cool air outside drifting through the open window near the bookcase. Everywhere he goes in the apartment smells like tomatoes and basil and seasoned beef, garlic and cheese from the bread, fruity aromas from whatever alcoholic beverage is brought around this time.

They sit and eat and talk. Bucky simply listens, hears a distant horn blaring in the distance, the low murmur of the television in the background, the buzzing of a phone that’s not Steve’s. He hears Sam’s words, light and humorous and sincere, so much like Steve that it hurts to listen. They mirror each other, are nearly one in the same. They used to be this way, Bucky and Steve, from what he’s gathered – and he’s gathered a lot, scouring the internet for information because he’s too much of a coward to bring a book about the life he can’t remember back home to Steve. They were so close, described as _inseparable_ far too many times to count.

And now here they are, so different but still the same. It had started with Steve, he thinks, when that small body turned big and the only reminder of his friend would’ve been the unchanging fierceness, the vivacious, loving soul that could finally stretch out and take up the room it deserved. Or maybe it was Bucky first, when he shipped off to a war he knows he never would’ve wanted to fight. _The only Howling Commando to give his life in the service of his country_. Wrong. In the service of Steve, it should say, because even now, as an amnesic shadow of a man, he knows the truth. Maybe he turned as bitter as the coffee Steve drinks, as cold as the winter day he would eventually fall on, long before he marched back from what was his first torture chamber, grasping at memories he’d only later be forced to forget anyway. Maybe Steve turned hot as the sun and as reckless as a man with nothing and everything to lose, just so he could follow Bucky to that dangerous brink when Bucky was already following Steve, everywhere and anywhere – _till the end of the line_.

The fork slips from his hands, a clumsy mistake. A stand-in for his loose grip on life.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is soft and clear, an anchor when he’s lost at the black sea inside his mind. “Hey, something wrong?”

Steve tries so hard at this, as hard as Bucky does. He skirts around being too careful and too demanding, too harsh and too soft, but he’s too _Steve_ no matter what.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Is that true? Does he want it to be?

++

Bucky likes music. He’s more open to variety than Steve, will try to listen to everything he can and then replay it again, even if he didn’t like it the first time. It’s about that second chance. And sometimes that third and fourth. (He tries not to think about how that mentality relates to him and hopes Steve doesn’t think about it either.)

But there’s one song he especially likes and Steve introduced it to him. The lyrics are important because they’re words that somebody thought up and chose to say, and it feels like he could say them, too. It feels like maybe he should.

And he realizes that clinging to Steve like this might just be what ends up killing him in the long run because he can’t let go, he could never let go, not until he was forced; when the rail broke, when he was dragged away and wiped clean of everything that made him unique, when he was lost for decades, lost in ice and lost in the shifting world and _lost_ without himself and his anchor. He couldn’t have it then so maybe he shouldn’t have it now.

It doesn’t stop him from wanting.

++

What does he want?

He thinks he knows the answer. He’s too afraid to hear the whisper in the back of his own mind, so he shuts that door and locks it.

++

Bucky doesn’t want to listen to Sam Wilson, but he does because Steve asks him to.

And when Wilson is waiting to pick him up after Friday’s session at the Tower, Bucky isn’t as surprised as he should be.

He isn’t told where Steve is when he gets into the car, journal placed carefully on his lap. Instead, he’s asked how he feels about tacos. It’s obvious that Natasha and Sam have been speaking because Bucky gets ordered the same thing he ate before without saying a word about it. At least Sam doesn’t put up any pretenses.

“We should make this a thing,” he says between bites of his extra spicy food. He doesn’t bother trying to catch the lettuce that spills out over the crinkled wrapper on his lap. “Between the four of us. Tacos and feelings.”

“I think I’d get sick of it,” Bucky says quietly, eyeing Sam openly. “The feelings, I mean. Not the tacos.”

Making people laugh sends tranquility through him; makes his bones ache less and cools his boiling blood. Sam has a nice laugh, a contagious one, just like Steve, but Bucky settles for smiling small and crooked in response instead of chuckling along.

“We all get a little sick of feelings on occasion. Some of us more than others, but that’s alright. As long as you talk about it once in a while, things’ll work out.”

Bucky sighs and rubs at his forehead. It’s an opening that he’s supposed to take. He could ignore it, like he usually does with these sorts of things (Steve’s been learning from Sam, so he has the practice).

He shakes his head, shakes his thoughts.

Reconnect. Put your foot forward, let the words fall from your lips. Ask for help, for guidance, for advice. Ask about how to put the other foot even farther, to get going, to move without fear of screwing up. Ask about Steve and Sam and Natasha. Ask about Bucky.

He takes a deep breath. _Reconnect_ _with the world_.

“Hey, can I tell you somethin’?”

Bucky blinks and looks over at Sam, takes in the serious expression. He nods.

“You don’t have to be jealous of me, y’know? You look at me like I’m about to steal your life and no offence, man, but I don’t want it.”

Caught off guard, Bucky stares down at his hands and tries to mumble out something – denial, more than likely – but nothing comes.

“I know what it is,” Sam says softly. “Bucky?” His tone suggests he’s testing the waters, wondering if he’s allowed to call him that. Of course he is. Bucky looks over at him without hesitation. “Both of us were out jogging. Or I was, like a normal human being. He was pretty much runnin’ a marathon. Kept passin’ me up. _On your left_.” His lips quirk and Bucky tries to quell those negative feelings – that _jealousy_ , now that he’s got a name for it. “He was a real smartass, too. Asked me if I needed a medic. But he was quick to turn away, y’know? I bet he thought I only saw Captain America, but I didn’t. I mean, I did, but I saw more than that, too. Mostly, I saw a soldier, one that hadn’t come all the way back yet.

“There’s some sort of relief when you find people you can relate to. All it took was both of us knowing beds were too soft. I told him about the VA meetings and he stopped by one time, stood by the door and watched the tail end of my endless wisdom.” Bucky has to crack a smile when Sam grins. “Steve’s got some problems; I know I don’t need to tell you that. But he’s got his problems and he doesn’t wanna deal with ‘em, but he tries and he lets me help. It’s nice to know you’re trusted and that you can trust someone in return. That’s how it is with us. We know what war’s like, how it feels to lose people. We helped each other out and we’re still doing it. Me and Steve are friends and I can imagine what that looks like to you, but don’t. Don’t think you’re bein’ replaced or, hell, that you’re even replaceable. You’re not. Me and Steve might be better friends than what you find on the street, but we didn’t promise each other forever.”

Bucky startles a little, feels his spine straighten and his muscles tense, his chest clench. He does his best to look like he doesn’t know what that means, but part of him does.

 _I’m with you till the end of the line_. That is forever, isn’t it? They vowed that at some point, probably when they were just dumb kids blind to the world that they would become so tangled in. It’s a train that never stops – until it does; for one and then for both. Together. Forever.

 “It’s not my business,” Sam says as Bucky blinks the tears away to stop them from falling. “We all deserve closeness and even if all it is between the two of you is friendship, you and me aren’t competing. We’re different people and we bring different things to the table. Steve needs us both.”

Bucky can’t really say anything because he knows Sam’s right. And he knows he needed to hear it laid out this way. He wonders, vaguely, if he’s always been a jealous person. When it comes to Steve, the answer can’t possibly be anything but _yes_.

++

_And even if all it is between the two of you is friendship…_

He doesn’t register those words until the sky is dark and the city is just a little quieter. He should be sleeping. He can’t.

++

Bucky is talked into attending Sam’s meetings at the VA at least once a week after that. Steve takes him on the bike 10 minutes early so he doesn’t have to walk in on curious eyes or emotional stories.

The floors are shiny and everything is neutral toned, painted in reddish-browns and honey-golds and shades of beige. There are pamphlets strewn across small tables and framed posters all around, and everything is neat and spacious and purposeful.

Bucky shrugs deeper into his jacket the farther down the hall they go, using nearly frozen fingertips to brush damp, wind-tousled hair back behind his ear. His half-gloved metal fingers curl up towards his wrist to tug the sleeve down his arm repeatedly, wincing at the echo his boots make when they clunk through the empty space.

It’s a big room, is the first thing Bucky notices. Fold-up chairs are placed in rows in front of a small podium where Sam is standing, shuffling around sheets of paper. He grins when they enter, clearly pleased, and he welcomes them to pick a seat.

He grabs one toward the back, right on the end so only one person can sit beside him. When Steve settles in that spot, Bucky gives him a curious look. Steve looks a little embarrassed.

“Sam thinks listening in will do me some good,” he says, like he has to explain himself.

Bucky offers him a little smile, knows it’s too tender, too real, and doesn’t care because Steve’s eyes on him make his body feel like home, like somewhere he belongs after being adrift for too long.

People start filing in, quiet and unobtrusive, taking their seats while they call out greetings to Sam. Some of them look to Steve and Bucky, the new additions, and offer smiles that show their vulnerability because this is the one place they don’t need a brave face to hide behind.

They listen to the stories of every day struggles, listen to Sam offer honest words. He never sugarcoats anything, is blunt and caring and understanding. It touches Bucky somewhere deep inside, a part of him that’s still cold and unmoved. It touches him and he starts to feel for these people and their experiences. He starts to feel for himself, like he did when he screamed his frustrations into the wind, only now it’s better because he’s got something resembling a handle on it all.

He feels that next puzzle piece shifting onto the board, knowing exactly where to go even though he doesn’t, and all it needs is a few consistent pushes to get to the right place.

“Don’t let anyone ever tell you to get over your problems, your fears, or your hang-ups,” Sam tells his attentive audience, bringing Bucky’s attention back to reality. “You go over, you bury it. The only way out is _through_. Get through it to get better. We all know it’s not as easy as it sounds, huh? It’s hard and that’s the point. That’s how you know it’s worth it.”

++

Is it worth it?

++

He gets a cellphone three days before Steve leaves for a mission. Bucky can’t begrudge him, knows he’s probably antsy to get back out there, to protect his country and fight because he still believes, _wearily_ , that it’s worth it.

Bucky’s silent for those three days, refusing to speak. Not even because he’s mad or upset. He just knows that if he lets words form on his tongue and fall from his lips, he’ll say the wrong thing. _Don’t go,_ he’ll plead _. Stay with me, Steve._

So he keeps quiet and ignores the fact that his muted presence makes Steve feel guilty.

Steve leaves and Sam stays behind, packing up Bucky’s clothes and the various personal items he’s acquired over the months so they can head to Sam’s for the week.

It’s a nice house, well-lived in. Personal. The rooms look as warm as they feel and the place is neat overall, but not completely so. There’s a contained chaos about it. From what Bucky can tell, it’s very fitting to Sam’s personality.

He spends the first day trying to take up as little space as possible, only to be forced out of his shell because Sam knows that he needs to be as stubborn as Steve during this time. He does a pretty good job of it.

Sam keeps Bucky busy with things like laundry and dishes. He even has him go out to cut the lawn on a day that the sun raises high in the sky, slicing through the increasingly cooling air with a wave of heat.

It's halfway through the week and he’s returning a text message from Steve when Sam comes into the living room, boxes stacked in his arms. Well, there’s one box and the other rectangular object ends up being a record player. Bucky watches Sam pull a vinyl out and hold it up.

“Trouble Man. Marvin Gaye,” he says. “I told Steve. This is all you need to know.”

They listen to record after record for hours, different songs, different singers, and different genres. He shuffles through the box, running his fingertips over the worn covers, reading the faded words. And then Sam brings out a smaller player with smaller discs and lets him rifle through those, too. There’s one called _Return of the Wildest_ with the names Louis Prima and Keely Smith on the front. He chooses that and pops it into the player, leaning back against the couch with his thumbs tapping away at the screen to answer Steve’s recurring messages.

Trumpets and a woman’s voice sounds out in the background, only making him pause when he hears some of the words.

_I love you for sentimental reasons. I hope you do believe me. I’ll give you my heart. I love you and you alone were meant for me. Please give your loving heart to me and say we’ll never part._

He finds himself typing the words by accident, a reflex of listening and having two separate threads of thought. Bucky erases the words quickly, tucking into himself with quiet shame.

Whatever Sam notices (and Sam notices _everything_ , Bucky’s starting to believe), it’s enough for him to hand the CD over with a request to keep it, since he seems to like it so much.

Bucky doesn’t argue like he knows he should. He doesn’t have that sort of resolve anymore.

++

He makes cupcakes Friday afternoon because his therapist has cut down the sessions to only two times a week, since he’s steady with his good days and can recover from the bad without any real lasting issues.

Sam helps him spread the chocolate frosting on the mini cakes, though their hands and the counters end up messier than strictly necessary. Neither of them is very artistic in this way. Bucky thinks that Steve would be a good baker – or at least a good decorator. He wonders if this is something they could do together sometime, like running or watching terrible movies just to have an excuse to sit close. 

The cupcakes are sloppily thrown together in the end, but the inside is what matters most and that inside tastes pretty damn great. Bucky makes sure to leave a couple for Steve when he returns in the morning.

And when he does, it’s with Natasha in tow, popping bubblegum and shouldering a backpack. They both look tired, but otherwise unharmed, and Bucky’s already waiting inside the apartment when they get in, ready to take their stuff and put it out of sight. But he doesn’t even get to turn away before Steve’s pulling him into a close embrace. He feels himself flush and has to avert his gaze from Natasha as he hugs back because it’s _too much_ of something. Too much and still not enough.

He breathes in deep and sighs when Steve folds himself closer, dropping the lead on the embrace so he can be held, so he can feel. They stand there for nearly ten minutes and Bucky doesn’t let go. If he didn’t have to, he wouldn’t ever.

Natasha makes them all tea and Steve drinks it quietly while he picks apart his cupcake until he’s ordered to go to bed. Bucky watches with sad, curious eyes, leaving them on the half-closed door even as Natasha begins to whisper.

“He had a rough time. We came across Rumlow.”

Bucky knows that name. His face goes blank at the mention.

“He got inside his head,” she continues. “Made him feel guilty about what HYDRA did to you.” He can hear the deep breath she takes through her nose. “Talk to him in the morning, okay?”

“I’ll talk to him now,” Bucky retorts as he begins to stand.

Natasha’s hand is tight enough to feel on his metal shoulder. He glances down at her, fending off a glare in favor of a less stern look. Her eyes dart over his face wearily.

“This is a dangerous road you’re on, Bucky. Both of you.” She gives him a dry smirk when his expression morphs into something like confusion. “Don’t look so surprised. The two of you are way past transparent, it’s not even funny. It’s sad.”

Bucky slips out from under her grasp and heads towards the couch, clutching the back cushion like a lifeline, until one fist is ghostly white and the other makes a whirring sound. He lets up before he can ruin the furniture.

Her face is serious again when she repeats, “It’s sad.”

He lets himself get lost in the thoughts that have been swirling around his mind for weeks. What does he want? Is it worth it?

Reconnect. Ask.

“I shouldn’t be here, should I?” he breathes out, more broken that he intended to sound. He doesn’t hear Natasha move, but he senses it.

“Where would you be if not here?”

“I don’t know,” he says, but his voice betrays the fact that he _does_ know. “Back with HYDRA. Or – I failed my mission, so maybe I’d be dead.”

“So death or love,” Natasha murmurs. He knows he doesn’t imagine the way her voice shakes on that last word. “It’s always those two options.”

“Tell me there’s another,” he begs because he can’t, he _can’t –_

“Not in this case, Barnes.”

His jaw trembles. He tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling with watery eyes, whispering, “I’ve been trying to understand how I got here, what happened… before. And at first I was thinkin’ that I chose Steve, y’know? Information says I stopped some kid from beatin’ on him, that I chose to do that all on my own, but I can tell you right now, I didn’t choose him. _I didn’t choose him_. He chose me. He decided that I could stick around and I’m fucking trapped with it now. I can’t remember who I am, but I’ve always known his face. _Why_?”

“You know why,” she tells him softly, small hand curled over his bicep, pressing into the tense muscles from over his skin. And he does. “Some people say we don’t get to choose who we fall in love with. I think that’s bullshit. When we’re in control, we always have a choice. We can fight or stand down. We can follow orders or make up our own minds.” There’s a telling pause before she goes on. “Back before I was part of SHIELD, I was against it. They sent an agent to kill me. He made a different call. That was _his_ choice. And maybe after that, at first, I tried to convince myself that what I felt for him was nothing but gratitude. That I wanted to just repay that debt. It wasn’t that simple. When you have history, it never is, but you’re not forced to continue on. You can walk away any time. I chose not to.” Bucky catches sight of her fingers reaching to absently stroke the tiny arrow against her neck. “You chose that, too. So did Steve. I don’t believe in fate, I think we make our own way, but even I know you two finding each other after everything, and getting to where you’re at now, means something. I just think the two of you should be careful. And you should wait to talk to him. He’s not… been doing well.”

Bucky knows that’s because of him. All of Steve’s problems are because of him.

“Don’t do that,” Natasha scolds, like she can read his mind. Or maybe she’s right and he’s become far too transparent. “Where’d you put my bag?”

“My room,” Bucky answers absently. “I’ve never used the bed. Have at it.”

He stays on the couch, leaves the TV playing on mute just so he doesn’t feel so alone.

It’s wrong. It’s wrong. He didn’t choose this, _couldn’t_ choose it, but…

 _But we didn’t promise each other forever_.

That was Bucky’s choice. He said it first. He chose Steve – again, again, again, and Steve chose him back each time. He can’t remember the specifics, but something tells him he’s right.

He falls asleep with that thought prevalent in his mind.

++

Steve sounds like he’s choking and Bucky zeroes in on it even while he’s half asleep, unable to focus on his rapid heartbeat because Steve is all he can hear. He’s inside Steve’s room before he can even get his eyes all the way open.

Bucky takes a deep breath when he sees that Steve is still asleep, twitching on the bed with his head thrown back,  gasping for breath. His skin is clammy, his shirt damp with sweat, and the sheets are nearly knotted around his legs.

“Steve. Stevie, wake up.” The words come without prompting as he reaches for Steve’s hands, squeezing tight, trying to be the anchor for once. “Listen to me, Steve. It’s Bucky. Wake up.”

He doesn’t know what does it, but Steve’s eyes fly open then, breaths coming out wheezy and uneven. Bucky tightens his hold on Steve’s hands, hoping the cool metal will aid him in remembering where he’s at, that he’s far away from whatever he was seeing.

“Bucky?” he croaks out, disbelief overtaking his tone.

“I’m here. You’re here, too, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. I’m fine.”

Bucky stays calm when he argues. “No, you’re not. But you will be. You can feel my hands, right?” Steve nods immediately. “Good. Now tell me what you were seeing.”

“Buck, I –”

Bucky shifts and tightens his hands once more, knowing it must be painful, but it’s what Steve needs.

“It’s water. And ice. It was so cold, I couldn’t remember feeling like that since before, back in Brooklyn, but worse. And I couldn’t breathe. Wanted to this time.”

“This time?” Bucky asks before he can stop himself.

Save for Steve’s heavy breaths, he stays silent.  It’s best not to dwell on what Steve might mean by those words, so he doesn’t, focuses instead on easing Steve’s fear in its place by asking him to be as descriptive as he can.

Steve tries. He talks about the way the sky looked from behind the windows of the plane, the emotions he shook with when he knew it was about to cut through the arctic. Bucky wants to know why Steve couldn’t try to jump it when he got close enough, why he didn’t try to escape. He thinks of how he was so ready to drop the shield on that helicarrier. If Bucky asks about any of this, he knows he either won’t get a straight answer or that he’ll get one he doesn’t like.

“Peggy was on the radio and the last thing I heard was myself talking about dancing. But I was thinking for such a long time after that. My body wouldn’t give up like it should’ve, would’ve before Erskine. And one minute I swore I was dying the slowest death you could imagine and then the next... I was waking up and running and they were telling me I slept for 70 years.”

“Do you dream about it a lot?” He’s moved his metal hand to Steve’s cheek, curling his fingers under the jaw, resting his thumb beneath the overly bright eye.

“No,” Steve affirms. “Not like that.” And then, “I’m gonna go ahead and guess you learned this in therapy.”

“Yep.” He’s unashamed right now because his experiences can be used to help Steve. “You should try it.”

Steve hums a little before his brows furrow and he asks, “Therapy?”

Bucky hums back. “You learn some things.”

And they sit there like that for a long time, until the sun starts to rise, with Bucky’s hands on Steve and Steve’s body leaning closer, searching for that warmth and comfort Bucky didn’t know he could provide.

It’s when Steve’s nearly asleep again – body loose and bent forward, head pillowed against Bucky’s sternum like it isn’t an awkward position but a really great one – that he mentions what Sam had said at that meeting.

“You can’t bury it, Steve. How many people have to tell you that before you believe it? And this, coming from me…” He scoffs at himself and that earns him and a particularly hard flick to his ear.

“ _You_ are the most important,” Steve breathes, half-asleep, into his neck, causing goosebumps to raise all over in a full body shiver. “So thank you, Buck.”

++

_“Thank you, Buck. But I can get by on my own.”_

_“Thing is… you don’t have to. I’m with you till the end of the line, pal.”_

++

What does he want? He unlocks that door and listens.

++

Steve starts therapy, two days a week like Bucky, an hour and a half after their morning jogs. He comes out cranky the first handful of sessions, mouthing off at Bucky and Sam because he’s too decent to yell at his therapist. But Bucky is _proud_ , of Steve and himself; proud of Sam and Natasha, too, for putting up with two heaping piles of superhuman sorrow and tragedy.

Steve’s sitting at the table with his sketchpad later in the afternoon when Bucky decides to approach him with some questions. He plops down in the chair closest to Steve’s, lets his eyes flicker across the page and over the fluttering hands that seem delicate now but can pack a mean punch when needed. Bucky sighs a little and it catches Steve’s attention, though he doesn’t look up.

“You bored?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says off handedly. He shifts in his seat and then, “Can I ask you somethin’?”

Steve glances up for a second when he says, “Sure.”

“Why _Bucky_? I know its short for Buchanan, but who came up with that?”

Steve stops his movements, looks up with a slight frown. “Do you wanna be called something else?”

He shakes his head. “No. It just sounds like a name you outgrow.”

“You kinda did, I guess.” Steve glances back down towards his sketch. “You told me your name was Bucky when we met. Few weeks later, you admitted it was really James but you liked to be called Bucky. It stuck around until after we graduated… most people started calling you James then, ‘cept your sisters and some of your close friends or the girls who really liked you. I don’t think I’ve ever called you James. You’ve always just been Bucky.”

Bucky huffs a laugh and shakes his head, lets a few quiet minutes pass before he asks the more important question.

“What was I to you?” It comes out quieter than he means, making it sound more like’s trying to find out a secret. Maybe he is.

Steve stops his sketch again, this time to give an odd look. “You were my friend. My best friend. You still are.”

Bucky has to use a lot of willpower not to look away. “Was that it?” he asks now, tentative, punctuated by a hard swallow. “ _Is_ that it?”

He counts the seconds. Five pass before Steve even registers the words and what they mean, and then he freezes, goes as still as a statue. Bucky doesn’t waver. He’s faced worse than this.

Steve’s cheeks puff with a breath he blows out through gathered lips. “What d’you mean?”

Bucky has to look away for a moment now, if only to resist the urge to balk. “You’re not stupid, Steve. Don’t act like you are.”

He doesn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes narrow, how he practically tosses the pencil aside so he can lean back and eye Bucky with something close to distrust. It hurts a little, to see that look on his face.

“We weren’t anything else,” he tries slowly, as if Bucky will understand better this way. “We aren’t.”

Bucky laughs at that because he may have his doubts, but he’s not the only one thinking there is or was something else.

“Yeah, your friends think otherwise.” He sounds bitter even to his own ears.

Steve deflates slightly. “Well, they’re wrong.”

“Are you telling me the truth?” Bucky demands. “Because I feel like –”

“ _Bucky_.” Steve's voice sounds strained, evasive. A warning.

 He gives a curt nod and stands, kicking the chair backwards as he grits out an _Okay._

“Bucky,” Steve draw out, reaching. “Bucky!”

He stops on the spot when fingers latch onto his arm, but doesn’t turn. He’s ready to shut that door in his head, slam it and never open it again, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because Steve has more to say and he can’t stop himself from listening.

“It was never – we couldn’t – and you weren’t like that with me. And then Peggy…”

“What’re you saying, _pal_?”

Steve doesn’t recoil from the venom in his tone.

“If you ask me again, what you were to me, I’ll tell you the truth.”

Surprised, Bucky turns his head to the side, letting his hair curl up against his cheekbone. It’s his turn to be suspicious, but he can’t really, not with Steve. Not when those honest blues look so desperate.

He’s still when he asks it; “What was I to you?”

And Steve is completely sincere. “Everything.” His voice drops with the gravity of his confession. “You were everything. And you always will be.”

“Did you love him? Me?” Bucky wonders, half amazed and half distraught. “Who I used to be? Because I can’t remember, but I _know_ I must’ve loved you. And… I do, right now.”

Steve’s lips part and his eyes dart around Bucky’s face before he closes them. Bucky doesn’t wait around for them to reopen, too afraid to see what emotions lie within those depths. So he wretches he arm away and strides towards the front door.

Steve doesn’t stop him. The disappointment is sharp and harrowing.

++

It doesn’t feel worth it.

++

He gets home late that night, as quiet as he can so Steve doesn’t hear, and settles himself down behind the couch like it’s some sort of cover. He sleeps for only a few hours and gets up before anyone else to leave again, forgoing the jog in favor of walking to the closest park and waiting until… until what? Until night, so he can keep running away?

If he hadn’t let Steve be so apart of his life, if he hadn’t let him become that anchor, Bucky wouldn’t be hurting so badly now.

Natasha finds him after lunch, probably by how loud his stomach’s growling. He tries to ignore her and finds out that it’s an impossible feat.

“It’s a misunderstanding,” she tells him. He wants to tell her to fuck off, but refrains from doing so. “I heard what you guys were saying.”

“You didn’t see his face.”

She snorts and plops herself down beside him, shaking her shorter, curled hair. “You didn’t see him after you left. Sam’s with him right now. He said, and I quote, ‘I fucked up real bad.’”

Bucky side-eyes her. “He did not.”

“He did. Personally, I think you both fucked up.”

“Yeah, well thanks for the opinion I didn’t ask for.”

Natasha laughs and it startles him. Her eyes are serious when they settle on his face. “Steve asked me to be his friend, so that’s what I’m doing. I care about him. And I care about you. So stop acting like children, go home, and talk it out. Let it be simple for once.”

Bucky thinks it’s too complicated to ever be simple, but he’ll try it her way. He has nothing else to lose.

He and Steve are silent for the first ten minutes, awkward and still upset, staring at each other as they try to cool down. Bucky cracks first because Steve looks like he’s about to break his jaw with how tight he’s clenching it.

“I’m not sorry for what I said.” When Steve doesn’t respond, Bucky adds, “Why’re we doing this, huh? Don’t ask me _what_ , Rogers. Just tell me _why_.”

“Why what?” Steve breathes.

Bucky glares. “Fuck. You.”

And then Steve laughs grimly and it’s all Bucky can do not to start throwing punches – at the wall, at the table, at the TV.

“Bucky, you want answers I don’t have.”

“Then who has ‘em?”

Steve’s shoulders hunch up in a poorly attempted shrug.

Bucky rubs at his forehead almost frantically, shutting his eyes at the pressure he uses. “If I could – if I could _remember –_ ”

“Stop,” Steve demands. “We were friends. Maybe there were times I thought it could’ve gone farther, but it didn’t and I have no clue what you thought, but it doesn’t matter. We can’t change it.”

“I’m not trying to!” Bucky shouts, arms barely contained at his sides. “I don’t care about the past anymore, Steve! I just wanna figure out what it means for us now. Or what it means for _you_.”

They’re both silent for a long moment, breathing and swallowing and shifting on the spot. Steve can’t look him in the eye and Bucky’s not sure he wants him to.

“We’re friends and that’s it,” Bucky clarifies out loud, only able to see the barest of twitches on Steve’s face. “Why doesn’t Sam try to hold my hand?”

“Because,” Steve whispers. It’s not an answer and Bucky’s about to tell him so, but then Steve’s striding forward, looping his fingers through Bucky’s belt loops, pulling them both along backwards until Steve’s legs hit the table and Bucky sways forward. He catches himself by pressing his hands against the wood on either side of Steve’s hips. “Because,” Steve repeats. His skin is flushed pink but he doesn’t look shy or embarrassed. He just looks like Steve; unmoving and unequivocally Steve.

“Because?”

“It’s different but it can’t be.”

Bucky raises a brow and looks pointedly down at where Steve’s hands have gone from his belt loops to his hips, grasp hard and possessive.

“Why?” he asks.

Steve snorts, parrots back, “Why?” like that’s all Bucky knows how to say. “There’re other things going on.”

Bucky chews on the inside of his lip for a moment, palms pressing deeper into the ridge of the table. It only hurts his human hand. “More important things?”

“No,” Steve tells him honestly. “Just _other_ things. Missions and therapy and life –”

“Well, shit, Steve,” Bucky says with a laugh that’s more sincere this time. “What’s this if not life? Things happen and you deal with it. Or are you gonna tell my therapist she’s wrong? I think she’d fight you on it and I’d be on her side.”

Steve deflates even further, sliding down the table as if he’s relying on Bucky to keep him standing, though Bucky knows Steve’s still in full control of himself.

"Maybe..."

“You know what I’m sick of?” Bucky murmurs, lowering his chin to catch Steve’s eye. “Accepting the way things are when I know I can change ‘em. I have the power to do that now, but I don’t and I’m just… here. Stagnate. And I _hate_ that. Because I know what I want and if I don’t try for it, everything I’ve done to get this far is pointless.”

Steve stares at him, expression unguarded, so Bucky takes a deep breath. He raises a hand from the table to swipe strands of hair back behind his ear, uses that same hand to settle on Steve’s shoulder to make him sway closer.

“So why’re we doing this? Why do we _keep_ doing this if we’re not gonna move forward? If you don’t want to?”

Steve’s lips quirk. “Never said I didn’t want to,” he says, low and clear. Bucky recognizes it as a challenge. He could roll his eyes.

“You’re such a punk. I’m not begging you, so if you want something then go ahead and t –”

His words get muffled when Steve surges forward to slam their mouths together. It’s clumsy and painful, with dry, chapped lips and noses scrunching together, teeth bruising skin. But it’s great, so great, and Bucky wouldn’t change it. Because this feels right, the awkward pull back and those gleaming blue eyes staring at him like he’s Steve’s personal hero. It’s ridiculous, but he doesn’t brush the notion away like he would’ve only weeks ago. He clings to it instead, clings to Steve with a metal hand dug into golden hair, coaxing his head closer. The touch is still hard and rough, just like the two of them, and Bucky’s never known such perfection.

Then Steve takes the lead, flicks his tongue out to add moisture, to make it gentle and affectionate and _too much_ and _not enough_ like he always does. He bites down on Bucky’s bottom lip when he goes to pull back, requesting that he stays exactly where he is, so Bucky does.

He sighs against Steve, needing to breathe but not wanting (or being allowed) to pull away, and he can’t help the smile that takes over his face. It’s wide and happy, comes with a laugh that shakes his entire torso, makes his eyes crinkle. Steve follows him into that downward spiral, banging their heads together as they laugh, forcing them into silent amusement.

“Bucky, s-stop,” Steve stutters out, like _he’s_ the problem. He lets out another laugh, more like a giggle if he’s honest, and Steve tugs him forward until Bucky’s face is buried in the crook between his shoulder and neck. “You ruined the moment,” Steve murmurs, but it’s soft and amused and incredibly fond.

Bucky hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “And I started the moment, so you don’t get to talk.”

“Fine.” Steve clears his throat and pushes against Bucky’s chest, moving him just enough to get a hand placed firmly on his cheek and jaw. “No talking. C’mere.”

They don’t say another word for a long while, speaking with hot kisses and suggestive caresses instead.

++

The last puzzle piece slides into place just as Bucky slides in underneath Steve. It’s more than worth it.

++

They’re at Sam’s house for dinner, Bucky and Steve washing and drying all of the dishes used for the meal while Natasha and Sam’s debate about mixed martial arts gets interrupted by a phone call from somebody named Clint.

The companionable silence in the kitchen mixes with Steve softly humming that Keely Smith song from the CD Sam gave Bucky. When he looks up, bottom lip caught between his teeth, Steve gives him a knowing smirk and hands the newly cleaned pan over to be dried.  

Bucky hands the towel to Steve after giving the last item a quick wipe down, Steve taking it to get the foamy soap off his arms, and then he throws the towel around Bucky’s neck and uses it to reel him forward.

Bucky acts first, making Steve snort with the smacking kiss he presses against his mouth.

Steve takes a breath before he asks, “You ready to meet the other Avengers? If Tony’s badgering is anything to go by, he’s definitely ready to meet _you_.”

Truthfully, Bucky doesn’t really want to meet anyone else. He’s got Steve and Sam and Natasha. That’s enough. But… he has a feeling his therapist would tell him that he needs to get out of his bubble at some point and reconnect with the world. And really, maybe he’s readier than he gives himself credit for. Maybe someday soon he can even start giving back to the world. Maybe he can go with Steve on his next mission, fighting _because he chooses to_.

He puts his hands atop Steve’s on the towel that's still around his neck and looks straight into those curious blue eyes.

“Sure,” he tells Steve, a crooked smile spreading over his lips. “I’m ready.”

++

When they arrive at the Tower he’s been going to for months now, with Steve by his side and Natasha and Sam bringing up the rear, Bucky realizes that the big A on the gaudy building stands for _Avengers_.

For the first time, he feels like there isn’t anywhere else he should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the songs mentioned was "The River, The Woods" by Astronautalis (I used this in one of the chapters of TBWBHOS. I love this song). The other was "(I Love You) For Sentimental Reasons" by Keely Smith. It didn't get as big a part as I'd hoped it would, but oh well.
> 
> This took way too long to write, which is probably why it's so choppy. I think I managed to fit everything I wanted this story to be, I just wasn't able to execute it as well as I'd hoped. Still, It's over and I can attempt to focus on something new. I'm not really sure what...we'll see what happens.
> 
> Thanks to anyone reading, commenting, or leaving kudos. It's always a joy and an inspiration to receive support. I hope you guys could enjoy this story.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Homesick" by Sleeping At Last.
> 
> This story exists because, apparently, a 130k+ fic about Bucky's recovery wasn't enough. This is shorter and more contained, focusing more on Bucky, Steve, and recovery in a more... conventional sort of way? Three stages of recovery, three chapters (though there might be an extra chapter, not sure yet) . Partially based off [this](https://1in6.org/men/get-information/online-readings/recovery-and-therapy/stages-of-recovery/judith-hermans-stages-of-recovery/) website I found in my searches. 
> 
> When I finished TBWBHOS I figured I was done with post-catws recovery fics and would focus more on AU's or something, but that was pretty much a lie because I still somehow have more to tell and needed to take another crack at it. I have a small list of things I might potentially write after this is over, one of which involves Bucky, Steve, and the Howling Commandos set during TFA, but we'll see if that goes anywhere. I mean, all I have for it right now is a title. But anyway, I have to focus on writing the next two chapters of this story. Hope you guys enjoy and, if you read the other one, don't find this redundant.


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